I was walking toward the bedroom to put away some folded laundry when I heard The Voice.

“Head On, apply directly to the forehead. Head On, apply directly to the forehead.”

I waited, mid-step, because the voice coming from the TV was like the one that gives instructions on subway trains or telephones: “The doors are closing. Step away from the doors before you lose three inches from your hind-end,” or “Press or say 2 if you’re annoyed with this automated system. Press or say 3 if you are now throwing the phone across the room.”

When I hear The Voice, I do what I’m told.

But this time, I wasn’t sure what to do.

Apply what? I knew where to apply, thanks to The Voice, but not what.

The one-sentence command was all I heard.

The next time I heard The Voice, I happened to be sitting on the sofa in front of the TV. Finally, I was able to see where The Voice was coming from —a woman on a television commercial applying something from a tube onto her forehead.

I felt the natural pull to obey. Still, I did not know what was in the tube or what it was used for.

Was it a new makeup designed specifically for forehead blemishes?

Was it heated, used like an iron to flatten those pesky worry wrinkles?

Could it be some sort of new bang glue to prevent flyaways when riding in convertibles?

I wondered if there was some new advertising trend on Madison Avenue that I was too slow to understand.

Maybe, advertising was not supposed to tell you that floor cleaners clean floors; perhaps the point is to create such curiosity that consumers have to drive to the store, pick up the box, and read the back to find out what the product does.

So I did.

Let me tell you before you waste the golden currency in your gas tank driving to the local pharmacy: The box doesn’t tell you much more than the commercial.

I did learn Head On has about a dozen ingredients, including, I think it was, a pinch of hip-hip to numb the mind and a dash of gullibility to stimulate sales.

Oh, and water.

The instructions also say: “Do not share this product with anyone,” which I took to mean the company would sell fewer boxes if we shared — or the inventor was an Only Child with Issues who’s just messing with us.

I learned much more during a quick visit to the Internet, where an article on the product said the Better Business Bureau forced the company to stop making claims about headache relief because the company did not “provide any reliable clinical testing to support its claims.”

Ah-ha! The reason for that demanding Voice. With no claims of pain relief to market, the manufacturers are marketing a mystery and commanding us to take note.

Brilliant.

This may be my chance to finally get rich — millions of women would probably buy a product touted by this commercial slogan: “Thigh On, apply directly to the cellulite.” The applicator would be made with shock absorbers to glide smoothly across all those bumps.

Men might buy, “Hair On, apply directly to bare skull,” but this is one product people should really keep out of reach of curious children who think it is ChapStick.

And I’m sure anyone who is squirming in his chair as he reads this would obey The Voice that tells him: “Butt On, apply directly to the hemorrhoids.” But that is one commercial I don’t want to see.